The Crow Flies Straight
by LawsonTR01
Summary: With Jax at the head of the table and tension only continuing to grow amongst the SAMCRO brotherhood, a new hierarchy needs to be determined in order to keep lucrative business in motion and to restore order from the chaos the club's found itself in. [Sons of Anarchy SEASON 6 setting]
1. Bylaw 1: Always Take Care Of Your Family

**A.N: This is the first installemnt of what I hope to be an ongoing novel that follows the potential events of Season 6 of Sons of Anarchy. I don't own Sons of Anarchy or anything like that first off, as many like to state. No less, I hope you enjoy the path that this story takes and stay tuned for further additions to the novel. Reviews are much appreciated and do help with getting the muse to continue writing additional material for the story itself! Thanks very much and I hope you enjoy!**

'_Something happens when the things you value the most are taken away from you. Your wife, your club, your family. Everything that you once knew being torn away at the same time just seems to break you – unhinge you. Whether it some test from a higher power or just the fact that I'm neck-deep in bad luck, I can't really say. All I know is, those things that I've known and loved are becoming less and less present in my life.  
Tara's behind bars.  
My V.P's stepped down.  
My kids are without their mother.  
Where do I have to go from here. Who can I trust?  
What can I get attached to when there's so much risk that comes along with it?  
There's only one right answer, boys; detach yourself from everything and everyone. It's the only way that you're ever going to get anything in this world done properly._'

Jax lifted his eyes from the page he'd been scribing his thoughts down onto. From the rooftop of his favourite place on the Teller-Morrow lot, he could see the glistening lights of charming; sparkling like stars in the night sky. The sound of the rare car passing by drew his eyes and ears, but never his mind from his deep thoughts. He could still hear Juice and some of the prospects bickering about how Bobby had stepped down from his post as V.P without any notice. Some were defending him, others the opposite – denouncing his actions.  
But Jax paid little attention to it. He didn't really care anymore. Sure there was an underlying feeling of betrayal which Jackson Teller was trying to over shroud with his false sense of understanding, but there it was all the same. So long as Bobby had decided to step down and took the action of making it a legitimate choice – that was enough for him to know that he was in dire need of a new right-hand. If Opie had been around, he knew things would've panned out in a completely different way. Hell, half the shit that happened with the One-Niners and Pope wouldn't have. And there wasn't a day that went by that Jax didn't regret not putting himself in that position which Opie had taken so willingly.  
Still, time had passed and Opie had died. Whether Jax wanted to come to terms with that reality or not. Bobby had stepped away, and the V.P post was vacant.

Reaching into his kutte pocket, the President removed the V.P badge and smoothed it between his fingers, his eyes still looking out across the horizon of lights. The sound of roaring motorcycles pulling into the lot had him blinking out of thought though, his sights drawn to Chibs, Happy and Tig pulling up – ready to go to Church – just like he'd asked. Pocketing the badge once more and standing to his feet, the President made down to the innards of Teller-Morrow. He greeted each of his brothers with a warm embrace. Even Bobby despite what had happened.  
Each member of the MC made for their seats around the table, Bobby a little further away than usual, Chibs in his usual place at Jax's side. The others took their respective seats in the same fashion, and Jax took a glance around the room.  
He breathed and said nothing for a moment, his thoughts lingering on Tara and the night that Sherriff Roosevelt came and took her away, cuffed and read her rights.  
An image which still played at his mind every night he went to sleep in a bed alone.  
Three days and it felt like three years.

'Sorry to hear about Tara, Jax.' Tig piped up, brushing a hand over his beard, his sorrowful eyes resting on the president at the head of the table.  
'Aye,' Chibs agreed. 'She'll get off brother. We'll get 'er through this.'  
Jax paid them both with respective nods and thanked them with his eyes, but still, spoke nothing.  
'What'd you call us all in for, Jax?' Bobby pushed his hair back, knowing well enough that it had to have something to do with needing to reinstate the hierarchy and restore it to properness.

'You know.' Jax finally raised, his words sharp like a knife. 'And so do the rest of you.'  
he shuffled in his seat, resting his elbows down on the table in front of him. 'As you all know Bobby resigned from his post as V.P. We need to vote in a new hierarchy, and we need to do it fast. If we can't come to a collective agreement I'll appoint an acting V.P and an acting Sergeant-At-Arms. If we can all agree, all the better.' He ran a hand over his chin, his eyes beckoning over to Chibs.  
'I vote Chibs for V.P, to replace Bobby.'  
Chibs offered Jax a glance, then looked back at his fellow brothers. 'I'm up for whatever this kiddo wants. I'm not 'bout ta' say no. It'd be an honour to be ya' V.P, Jackie-Boy!' Chibs remarked.  
The room all raised their hands in favour, and just like that, Chibs had earned himself his new patch. Standing from his seat, he'd been met by the warmest of embraces by his President and the two of them shared a moment, the other brothers laughing and smiling all the same. The Scotsman had upped out of his seat and plodded himself down on Jax's opposite side, in the respective V.P position.  
'And Sergeant-At-Arms?' Juice spoke in barely an audible tone.  
'I vote Tig.' Jax said, his words weighing on him a little. He knew all too well that Tig was always Clay's boy. Clay's right-hand and the thought of reinstating him into that post he'd once sat in some comfortably felt a little unhinging. But he could still hold the whole prison thing over Tig's head to keep him under control. To restrain him and to unleash him at will; something Jax liked the thought of all the same. So long as he had his leverage for saving Tig from Pope and from prison – it was all smooth sailing.  
There was an eerie and thick tension in the room with those words though. Some leaned back in their seats, a little taken aback by Jax's choice. Others tended to look down at the table, uncertainty clear by the hands they ran through their hair or over their heads.

In respectable fashion, as Jax's new V.P, Chibs cleared his throat out and demanded the attention of the room.  
'I secon' Jackie-Boy's motion, lads.' Even Tig was looking a little awe struck now, and his hands were fumbling about with the cigarette he'd begun rolling in the tense silence that had finally been raised.  
'I'm with you guys then.' Juice swallowed deeply.  
'Likewise.' Happy growled in his rough tone.  
'Yup.' Bobby now.  
'Sure thing...' Tig tried to sound less surprised than he was, but his face told another story. His face told the story Jax had hoped for. The fact that he was by no means expecting to me in any position of authority any time soon.  
And that meant one thing, Tig was going to be one-hundred-and-ten-percent committed to keeping his post as Sergeant-At-Arms – because if he didn't – it was going to be a long, long way away from being his post ever again.  
'That's a majority.' Jax tapped his gavel on the table. 'Chibs is V.P. Tig's Sergeant-At-Arms. We'll swear all this shit in later. Right now, we've got things to talk over.' The president adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back into it.  
'Anyone heard anything on Clay?' he queried, leaving it open to the table.  
'Juice said they'd transferred him to Stockton today. 'Niner's are a'ready plannin' some sort'a beatin' on 'im.' Chibs answered, stroking his goatee, his eyes looking Juice's way.  
'Yeah. I mean, at least that's what I heard.' Juice shrugged.  
'Good. Clay'll be out of our hands once and for all in no time.' Jax nodded, his eyes keeping well away from Bobby – a man he could feel glaring right down at him. There was no secrets that Bobby had hated the idea of Clay 'going away'. He'd thrown his V.P patch in for that exact reason.  
'What're we doing about Tara?' Tig leaned forward. 'I think that's our first priority, don't you think, Jax?'

Jax nodded his head slowly at that.  
'I dono' what we're gonna' do about Tara.' He admitted.  
'I can get onto organizing some protection for her?' Happy spoke up. 'Got some friends who've got wives locked up where she's going. See what they can do.'  
'That'd be sweet, Happy. Get on it.' Jax thanked.

And just like that, Happy was on his feet and headed for the nearest phone. As he departed, in came Chucky, his prosthetic limbs holding a phone in them, and his always sad eyes, peering at Jax.

'What is it, Chucky?'

'Nero.'  
Jax bit down on his lower lip already knowing it had to be something bad. It was about the only time that Nero bothered the club.  
'Alright, hand it over.' Taking the phone, Jax leaned into it, pressing it against his ear. 'What's up bro?'

* * *

By the time Jax and Chibs had pulled up at the front of Diosa, business was bustling as usual. Older men came and went, exchanging smiles as they passed one another by – all suited up to the neck in their job attire. Amidst it all, the suits and ties, the two leather jacketed bikers made their way easily through to Nero who was slouched over his desk, phone pressed against his ear. He was draped in his usual cardigan over top, his black tank top underneath. He'd clearly noted the bikers arrival, but gave them a polite 'wait-a-sec' hand gesture. Finally, he rounded his call up, gave a Spanish farewell and hug up the phone.  
Standing to full height, he pulled his cardigan closer to his body and looked between Jax and Chibs.  
'Thanks for coming.' He said.  
You know it bro. Explain this shit to me, yeah?' Jax spoke back.  
Signalling the two to a more quiet place, Nero led the way into his office, allowing the two men in and shutting the door behind them with a gentle push. He tracked across the well furnished room, closed the blinds to the window looking out into Diosa's main entertainment room and took to his seat behind his desk.  
Jax moved to a seat opposite Nero, while Chibs took to leaning against a wall, examining one of Nero's sculpted stone works.  
'We gotta' big problem.' The Latino scratched his neck uneasily. 'Couple o' my guys've been getting reports that our customers, our business – they're getting messed around. Some rival gangbangers from outta' town decided to move closer to Charming, open up an escort service kind'a like what we got goin' on here.' He breathed for a moment, looking at Jax, trying to decode the man. 'Our regulars ain't too keen on coming back to Diosa while they're getting messed around, _hermano_.' Dipping his head and looking up at Chibs who'd stopped looking at the sculpture, Nero fell silent.  
Jax sat quietly for a moment, stroking his chin.

'You've got your boys – why not send them to sort it out?' he shrugged.  
Nero shook his head, tapping the desk and pointing Jax's way as if he was already aware of Jax's reply even before he'd said it. 'Gotta' keep myself clean of all that shit, holmes.' He wiped his hands down his chest as if to show what he was saying. 'I can't go toe-to-toe with these guys. Can't find a war on my doorstep. Diosa'll only lose out if we do it that way, man.'  
The President nodded his head in understanding. The last thing Diosa needed was these hard-nut gangbangers coming down for some sort of retaliation, and for that exact reason, he knew now why Nero had contacted the Sons. Keeping the "drama away from business" as Latino always put it.  
Smart guy. Something Jax always knew. The exact reason why he'd gone into business with him in the first place.

'We'll take care of it. Rough 'em up and set shit straight, bro.' Jax nodded matter-of-factually.  
'Much appreciated, hermano.' Nero nodded, offering his hand over which Jax shook always instantaneously. 'But if you'll excuse me, gotta' keep an eye on things out there.' He raised from his seat, gave the two men a thankful nod and proceeded out of his office, shutting the door behind him to give the two friends some privacy.

'Can't do this with our kutte's on, Jackie-Boy. Blow back on th' club. We got 'rselves 'nough shite to deal with, brother.' The VP spoke.  
'Your right.' He sat for a moment, thinking. 'I think I've got something we can work with here.' He pointed to Chibs, 'Get Happy and Juice and have 'em on standby. Tell 'em to meet us just outside of Charming. I've got a job for them.'  
'Ye' got it.' Chibs answered, pulling his cell out and padding in the numbers.

* * *

Standing with his kutte off and his navy-blue hood pulled over his head, Jax watched as Chibs puffed away at his cigarette, leaning on his bike draped in his token brown leather jacket; his long hair parted either side.  
'How far off are they?' Jax asked through the puff of his own cigarette, drawing it from his mouth and flicking the excess ash off its tip.  
Chibs savoured his most recent drawl of smoke and breathed out, 'Not too far, brother. A few minutes if we're lucky.'  
They'd been standing across the road from the Grim Bastard's club house, keeping a low profile behind the cover of some nearby trees. The sun was beaming down on them like an unforgiving fire – singeing a burning at their skin without any hopes of faltering behind the clouds that were.  
It'd been Jax's idea to target their once close brothers, and sister-charter. After the events that had occurred with Opie, and the death of their President's cousin at the hand of Chibs, relations had never truly been the same. Word had reached the Son's that the Grim's were even considered reforming with some of their own extensive charters to bring some sort of rebellion-like justice down to make things right. And that didn't sit too well with Jackson Teller. Hence why they were going to be the reason these gangbangers that were targeting Nero weren't so much as interested in the Sons and Diosa anymore, but instead, the Grim Bastards.

It'd been no secret that they had seen the successes of prostitution for the Sons and endeavoured to achieve such a success themselves – and that additionally made them perfect for what the SAMCRO president had been plotting.

Taken from his thoughts by the rumbling of Harleys, Jax took note of Juice and Happy pulling up and parking their bikes. Chibs stamped out his cigarette and pulled a hand through his hair, giving them a warm greeting.  
But Jax didn't move. He remained perched on his bike, looking at them through the dark sunglasses that were protecting his eyes from the beams from above.  
'What's going on, Jax?' Juice asked as the group narrowed back to meet with their president.  
Jax dampened his lips took a glance back at the Bastards clubhouse and then back to the men that stood before him.  
How he trusted them all – even when Juice had practically ratted out the club. He'd proved himself a loyal sort, doing something for a decent cause.  
'Diosa's been getting some unwanted attention from some rival gangbangers of Nero's,' he began. 'We need to get that shit away from Diosa and pin the target for these guys on someone else.'  
'The Bastards.' Happy finished with a sly smirk.  
'The Bastards.' Jax confirmed with a cool smile. 'You're the closest two we've got to looking like a patch of the Bastards. Bangers see white guys wearing their cuts, they won't buy shit.' Jax signalled back towards the clubhouse. 'I need you guys to steal two kuttes. Dispose of the members, whatever, I really don't give a shit how you get 'em. Once you've got yourself one of their kuttes, get on your bikes, ride down to this address.' Jax handed off a piece of paper that Nero had given him with the details of the gangbangers whorehouse. 'You shoot that place up and make sure the message is delivered. You make sure the bangers see the Bastards kuttes and then you get the hell out of there.'  
Happy and Juice nodded their heads.  
'No problem.' Happy spoke on the behalf of both he and Juice.  
'We'll see you back at the clubhouse.' Jax nodded, igniting the engine of his Harley and allowing it to roar loudly.  
Chibs mounted up and kicked his own bike into gear. 'Stay safe, boy-o.' Chibs pointed at Juice. 'Don' fuck this up.' He could see Juice's lips turning downward into an almost frown. Juice hated being the underdog of the club – something that was distinct from any underestimation that came from his fellow brothers.

Off they went, bikes roaring down the street; Chibs riding right by Jax's side.

Juice and Happy offered one another a look and nodded to each other, establishing the faith they both had in one another abilities.  
'So how're we going to do this?' Juice questioned, rubbing the back of his head anxiously.  
'We wait for two or three of them to leave. Follow them. Kill them. Take their kuttes.' Happy shrugged effortlessly. This was no foreign ground to him. He'd always been one to take care of the dirty work of the club.  
Still, for Juice, it was something far more personal. He'd really only killed two or so people, and those events haunted him on a constant basis. And this whole thing with framing Clay? Shit, that was following him around everywhere he went. Regardless of whether he had to do it or not, he felt like the biggest piece of shit to walk the face of the planet. Clay was like a father to him over the past few months – it was hard to ignore that.  
But time was precious and the sound of two bikes revving to life had Juice snapping out of his deep thoughts. He turned to see two Bastards taking off from the safe house and noted that Happy had already mounted up and began the pursuit.  
Like it or not, it was time to get his hands dirty.


	2. Bylaw 2: Business Comes Before Friends

**A.N: Thanks for the reviews guys, keep them coming! I really appreciate each and everyone of them! Sorry about the delay on this part, I am writing as we go here so updates are going to be a little slower than I'd hoped.  
In regards to the question of there being an O/C in this Fiction, for now I'm going to say 'Not of great Importance'. I say that because this is a mostly canon-based fiction, and while new characters may come and go - they won't be incredibly 'key' so to speak.**

**Anywho, hope you enjoy!**

Diosa was a quiet haven now. The customer body had disembarked and Nero found his lips touching gently across Gemma's neck as she sat in deep thought, his office dimly lit by the candles that burned slowly around them. She'd been pondering her betrayal of Tara. The way she'd just given her over to the law and effectively branded her a criminal.  
While it wasn't something she was regretting, it was something that constantly prodded at her mind. She knew it was the only way to keep her grandkids "safe". To keep them from being pulled away from Charming. But what she'd done…. If Jax found out – it cancelled all the mending she'd done when she had helped with sending Clay right to Stockton for the murder of Damon Pope.  
It was clear well enough to Nero that Gemma had a lot on her mind and he had regularly asked her to talk to him, but, like the rock that she was, Gemma refused each time – promising that she was okay.

Kissing his way lovingly up to Gemma's lips, the Latino spoke through gentle pecks.  
'What's goin' on with Clay?' he'd heard things here and there about the fate of the ex-SAMCRO President, but nothing that really confirmed anything of merit. He had always been kept a distant figure of SAMCRO affairs, except for when it came to the split that came with being a partner of the club.  
'He's Stockton-bound.' Gemma placed simply. 'He'll be in lock-up by the end of today.' She spoke, kissing him back, gently touching a hand on his face.  
'He getting club protection in there?' Nero asked a little uncertain, drawing away from Gemma's lips, looking deep into her eyes for the truth.  
'Nah.' She spoke back simply. 'He's not the club problem anymore. Clay lost that right, long time ago.'  
'So?' Nero asked, shrugging his shoulders. 'What happens to him now?'  
'One-Niner's do what they gotta' do. Clay killed Pope.' She lied easily. 'Niner's gotta' make that right.'  
'Poor bastard.' The Latino creased his lips.  
'Yeah.' Gemma spoke half-heartedly in agreement.

Though the conversation didn't linger too long on the past. Clay was an artefact; someone that had made Gemma into the person she was today and nothing more. Now it was about her and Nero. About the bond that they had developed and the love that they had for one another.  
No matter how many times he said it, it never got old. That preaching of his love for her and how much he'd do for her if she ever so asked him.  
And so he did just what he did every other day he had the pleasure of being with Gemma Teller-Morrow.  
'I love you, Gem.' He touched her chin, tracing it with his thumb and leaning in to narrow the distance between their lips.  
Gemma did much the same, kissing deeply into the man she'd fallen for so quickly.  
'I love you too, baby.'

* * *

'What do we do, man?' Juice's eyes frantically looked about the alleyway that the Bastards had pulled into, his own bike a few feet away where Happy and he had stopped to dismount. The area was deserted, a few stray cars passing by on the odd occasion, but nothing more.  
While that would prove to act in the Sons favour as a result of what they were here to do, Juice couldn't shake the regret he knew he'd be feeling after.  
'We're gonna' kill 'em.' Happy spoke emotionlessly, his huskiness ever present.  
Before Juice could even speak, Happy had drawn his pistol and began advancing down the alley. He clicked the safety off, drew the firearm up and tapped away twice at the trigger. Two shots sounded. Two bodies fell to the floor.  
And Juice stood in place, eyes wide and his heart racing.  
He still hadn't moved of the mark he'd been standing on and Happy had already done what he needed to. He'd collected the kutte's, leaned over and closed the two men's eyes and made back for his Harley, tossing a kutte at Juice as he went.  
'Put it on. Lets get this done.'

Happy's bike roared off down the road but Juice struggled to start his own, his fingers fumbling about. Whether his President had asked him to do this for the benefit of the club or not, it didn't matter. He couldn't shake the feeling of what they were doing was wrong. The Bastards were going to have a war on their hands – all for some profit for the club.  
But Juice wasn't in the position to make challenges of Jax's orders. So he fastened his helmet, slipped his Sons kutte off and replaced it with the Grim Bastards. He ignited his bikes engine and followed distantly behind Happy. But the thoughts of what they were doing had not left him. And so he judged himself the entire way to the gangbanger's whorehouse.

Happy had come to a halt and was waiting for Juice to pull up next to him. Though, the two exchanged no words once he had. Instead, a reassuring nod was given from the natural born killer, Happy Lowman. He drew his pistol up and unleashed his trigger finger. His entire clip was emptied and the house was covered in bullet holes.  
Juice hesitated, but did what needed to be done no less – until finally the gangbanger's emerged and the two took off down the road, their Grim Bastard kutte's visible in the wind.  
And so it was done. And Juice was beating himself up even more inside as they raced down the stretch of road ahead, his heart racing and his body numb with regret.

* * *

'I'll be out soon, bro.'  
'No problem brother. Take ya' time.' Chibs replied to his president, slipping his gloves off and tucking them into his jacket pocket before sifting through his inside breast pocket for a cigarette.  
The two of them had only just left Happy and Juice. Although, while the two SAMCRO members thought them to be going back to the club house, they'd taken a different route.  
Standing out the front of Stockton Women's Detention Center, Jax could hardly get a hold of himself. His hands were shaking as he fumbled for a cigarette and the lighter to burn away at the tobacco.  
He couldn't explain it, but he was scared beyond belief; quietly hoping that seeing Tara behind bars wasn't going to rip him apart inside. Hoping that he wasn't going to feel as though he'd fed her nothing but lies since the day they got back together.  
That was a fool's hope. That was why he was shaking so badly; because deep down, he knew he was wrong to have even started hoping on the first place.  
So with one finally glance back at the coolly seated Chibs, Jax trudged forward, and shoulders swaying with his gait.

The security process had him removing his rings, belt, and knife – the whole lot. Jackson hadn't realized just how much metal he had on him at every given moment of the day, and hell, prisons had a unique way of telling you that you needed to cut down on your pins, buckles and weapons.  
If he'd known he was going to stop by the Detention Center, he'd have left most of the things he had at the club house.  
Finally though, Jax had been given the go-ahead and he passed into the visitor's room. A row of chairs was found on the far left of the room upon his entrance, the rest of the room empty, bar the Stockton uniformed guards that were standing in the two far right corners.  
Opposite the row of chairs, directly in front was a thick layer of bulletproof glass, followed by more chairs on the other side of the partition.  
He wasn't even going to be able to touch her.  
To feel her.  
To see her through nothing but his own eyes.  
The SAMCRO president could feel his stomach clutching at itself, churning and aching.

Taking a seat at one of the cubicles, Jax grabbed the phone that was wired to another handset on the other side. He placed it to his ear, his eyes locking onto an opening door from behind the glass. He saw Tara move from it; slow and hesitant – a giveaway that she hadn't seen the room she was now in.  
Jax did his best to smile her way, to reassure her that everything was going to be okay, but he couldn't. His lips refused to move, and his eyes simply would not offer anything but concern for the love of his life.  
And so when Tara finally took her seat and placed her own handset to her ear, her loving husband broke.  
'Hey Tara.'  
She didn't respond. She sat there, a clear lingering fear holding her features absent of any emotion.  
'Hey,' Jax said firmly, hoping to shock some life into Tara. 'We're gonna' get you out of here.' He looked deeply through the glass, trying to meet eyes with his wife.  
But Tara kept her gaze in a neutral place and tears began to stream down her cheeks. Her sobs could be briefly heard through the phone as she took it away from his mouth – desperate to restrain herself.  
'I want to believe you….' She paced, breathing. 'But I just can't.' she knew why. She'd been lied to too many times by the Teller's. Mislead and betrayed too many times by them.  
One in particular.  
Gemma.

Honestly, Tara didn't know why she hadn't told Jax straight away that it was his forsaken mother than had set all this in motion – just because she wanted to protect her kids. But something told Tara that it was better to keep it quiet for now. To allow that information to linger. Something for her and Gemma to know.  
For that reason, she said nothing more on the matter.  
Instead, she bit down on her lip and finally looked back into Jax's loving eyes.  
'I'm sorry, Jax.' She pleaded.  
'For what?' he looked genuinely uncertain and ashamed that he'd made Tara feel like she was on the wrong for something.  
'For not telling you I was leaving with the kids. For keeping you outside of all this. I should've just told you. I should have-….' She shook her head, cussing herself.  
'This isn't your fault.' Jax spoke firm but assuring. 'You were right to do what you did. Charming, what's going on with the club – it's no life for my kids.' He cast a look down at the floor, pulling a hand through his hair.  
'I'm sorry you felt like all this was your fault to begin with.'  
It was in that moment that Tara was reminded why she fell in love with Jax Teller.

How significantly she was reminded of that outlaw charm.


	3. Bylaw 3: Have Protection In Lock-Up

**AN: Hey all, sorry for the big delay on this for those of you who've been intently following. Thank you all for your patience, it's just been busy and knocking off chapters has been a little harder lately. No less, here is the latest installment. Bylaw 4 shouldn't be too far off as that's been delved into already as well, at a similar time to writing Bylaw 3! Hope you enjoy guys, and of course, please review! :)**

'Can you hear my voice, Mr. DeLaney?'  
Otto simply chuckled in his throat, his sick, un-easing laugh travelling about the interrogation room as nothing more the silence tainted it. He said nothing though. Not that he could even if he wanted to, as a severed tongue left him absent the ability to articulate himself.  
'For the first time in a long time, Mr. DeLaney, I come baring gifts.' Lee Toric's voice was deep, low and mysterious. His footsteps sounded as he moved around the seated Otto, like a predator circling its victim. He was a man of power; a man that knew his every word and action would govern aspects of the way the Sons lived out their remaining days as an MC.  
Still, Otto had looked up with curious and uncertain eyes, his hands running over his beanie, as if granting the man his permission to go on.  
'Clay Morrow was transferred into Stockton today.' He smiled then.  
Otto's eyes widened and his hands fell into his lap as he dropped back in his seat.  
'I offer you a sense of justice Mr. DeLaney. For his part in your wife's death. For allowing a member of the club to go about business with her and treat her like a piece of meat.' He stopped at the opposite side of the table, extended his hand, palm up facing.  
'I'm giving you the opportunity for vengeance, the same way that I'm going to get.'  
Otto bit down on his lip so hard that it nearly split, and he nodded his head, revealing a small notepad. He opened his hand outward, requesting a pen – which he was granted – and he began scribing.  
Soon enough, he'd finished and he slid the notepad over towards his company.

It read:

_I may finally be able to help you._

And for the first time whilst being in the same room as the man that had killed his flesh and blood, Lee Toric smiled; victorious.

* * *

Tara could feel the chills etching up her spine every time she heard footsteps in the open corridor outside her cell. There was just something unbelievably haunting about knowing that she'd be unable to roam freely like the guards that patrolled on scheduled basis. Instead, she was stuck in a cell, barely the size of Abel's room, her eyes following the plain white walls all the way around her as she counted the feint marks from previous prisoner's outbursts. What was worse though was the reality she was living inside the cell, rather than that which was occurring beyond its confounds. She'd been cell-mated with Vanessa Carlene, a woman that had been convicted of nothing more than the assault of her girlfriend in Charming, not three months ago. Sure, it'd been a pretty violent assault, but when the two spoke, Tara would not have ever counted on what came next. She'd been in prison for not even half the time Jax had served and yet, she was wrapped up in a ball next to the toilet, her head tipped over the bowl as she vomited continuously for hours on end, near to the point of passing out.

Vanessa had a way of getting around the insanity that ensued with being locked away, however, it was at the expense of her cell-mates; three of which before Tara had committed suicide as a result. Rape was a hard thing to prove when it was woman-on-woman; especially when the guards tended to turn a blind eye to the troublesome likes of a SAMCRO old lady. And Tara was feeling that. Day in, day out. Whenever Vanessa wanted. First it was nothing more than a few unpleasant touches here and there, but soon enough, Tara was being pinned, shoved, beaten and hit in every possible way until she did anything to stop the abuse anymore.

And so, when it all came to an end and Vanessa was content, kicked back on the upper bunk and dozing, Tara was toilet bowl bound. Hell, she couldn't remember the last time she'd properly slept. Because when she could finally stop herself from chucking up far more than she truly had in her stomach from prison rations – it was time to endure the pain and the hurt of a prison-turned rapist all over again.  
And so she cried. Prayed. Begged God for a little mercy; but nothing ever seemed to come.

But just as the vomiting had cast her into unconsciousness and she slowly began to doze next to her pool of stomach acid, a loud thump came from her cell door.

"Knowles. You got a visitor?" the guard spoke.

"Wh—what?" She stirred, her eyes glazed over as she struggled to her feet, weak.

"Come on." The female guard instructed, opening the gate. "Let's move."

"I- It's Teller. Tara Teller." She tried to sound strong, but fell short by miles, etching towards the cell door and using its frame to hold her up as she passed through.

Moving through the prison, she finally found herself at the visitors lounge and she dropped onto one of the cold benches, her hands set atop the table, nails chewed away down to the very cuticle.

Across from her sat a long haired, bearded man with focused eyes and a brown jacket draped over his shoulders; a face she'd seen before.

Lee Toric.

She pulled in a deep breath and went to turn for the guard, but she was gone, standing outside the room. Quickly turning back to Toric, Tara tried to center herself – trying everything in her power to appear far less startled than she was, but in truth, she didn't have the energy for it; not even remotely.

"Hello Mrs. Teller." He spoke, smiling.

"Hello." She replied with a momentary delay. "I-Uh, What can I help you with, Mr. Toric?" she stammered.

"Hm" he smiled a little more, chuckling a little. "You can't help me with anything, Tara. I'm here to help you understand what's going to happen to Jax and his club."

Tara moved uncomfortably in her seat for a moment, trying to find some uncertainty in Mr. Toric's gaze, but noted nothing but hard, committed truths.  
"What do you mean?" she plotted along carefully, her eyes searching the room – unable to focus on Lee's stone-like eyes.

"The Sons of Anarchy ruined my life, Mrs. Teller. You, single handedly, provided the weapon to Mr. DeLaney that killed my sister. Your club promoted it and urged it on because it would make RICO go away." He pursed his lips and cast a look down, furrowing his brow. "I'm going to make all that right again. RICO's coming back, Tara. I'll make sure of it. I've got connections – so this is no idle threat. I've got guns. SAMCRO get in my way – your husband gets in my way – I have no problem dishing out a justice they've been avoiding for far too long." He looked up once more, his eyes centered on Tara. "You need to know what it feels like to lose something for the benefit of others, Mrs. Teller. And I'll make sure you understand my pain." He nodded his head, pulling a photo out of his pocket and setting it on the table, sliding it to Tara. A picture of Jax with distinct bold words:

**KNOW MY PAIN, TARA.**

Just like that, Lee Toric stood from his seat, gave Tara an assuring smile that he spoke truth and walked towards the exit.

But Tara wasn't finished. She felt tears swelling at her eyes and she stood from her seat and called loudly out.  
"I'll show the guards! I'll tell the police what you're going to do!"

But Lee Toric turned to her and simply smiled once more.  
"No you won't. I know who you are, Mrs. Teller. I know the Sons culture." He turned and threw a word over his shoulder. "Have a nice day."

* * *

"Morrow, let's go!" the guard opened the cell door and grabbed Clay by the back of his prison outfit, pulling him out of the cell and dragging him to the laundry room. The guard disembarked, the door closing behind Clay and the ex-Son stood, eyes darting about, ready at any moment to meet his demise; left dying on the prison Laundromat. But nothing came. Instead, the brief sound of one mans footsteps leading from the back of the cleaning room. His large glasses with one eye covered made him a clear face, and for the first time since he'd been in Stockton, Clay was relieved.  
"Otto." He breathed. "Scared the goddamn shit out of me, brother." His shoulder slouched as the tension released and he looked at the son-turned-rat before him.  
But, true to his nature, Otto made no gesture of kindness and instead, offered a piece of paper with his scribing Clay's way.

Casting a glance down at it, Clay narrowed his eyes, reading the scripture he'd been offered and looking back up at Otto when he'd finished.  
"What is this?" Clay wasn't appearing anything but concerned again. "Otto?"  
"He's got no tongue, Clay. Can't say a whole lot." A voice emerged from behind the ex-President. A tall, dark skinned man with a purple handkerchief wrapped round his wrist; a trademark of the Niners.  
"Your boy's sold you out, Clay. Niner's got a hit out on yo' head. Want's nothing but blood man. After you killed Pope…. Shit." The man revealed a led pipe.

"So what? You gonna' kill me, huh? You sorry ass nigger!" Clay spat at the mans feet, cussing him out both in fear and anger. "I'll put that pipe through your skull before you even get swinging." He grunted, pointing his finger back at Otto. "And yours too, you dirty rat!"

Otto simply chuckled a little, and the Niner moved in to strike. But just as he did, the guard re-entered, revealed his baton and clobbered him over the back.  
"You guys done yet?" He cast a look at Otto who shook his head, and the guard simply nodded, pulling the concussed Niner out of the room. Closing the door behind, Clay was left with Otto; alone once more.

"What the hell is going on, Otto? You better give me some answers!" then came the second piece of paper.

_'You rat out the Sons, or that Niner won't be stopped next time. Guards have been paid off for this meet to protect you. Next time, it'll be the opposite. Someone I'm dealing with needs the Sons gone – you do that – you serve you sentence out in here, protected.'_

Clay cast a glance up from the letter, scrunched it in his fist and tossed it at the floor, spitting on it.  
"I'm not ratting on my club."

Otto shrugged his shoulders as if to suggest that he'd done all he could; there were no other alternatives on the table.

"People at that table – they went against me; but that club? That club is the life of Charming, Otto! It's not getting buried. It's not going anywhere. Throw what you got at me, but I'm not turning rat. Not for you and your son-of-a-bitch Niners." Morrow leaned back against the wall, folding his arms and looking about him; knowing he could be attacked at any given moment.

But nothing came and Otto simply tapped his hand on the dryer and the guard returned, grabbing Clay and taking him back to his cell, tossing him in. And then there was a calmness. A silence that took over. But in Clay's mind, there was a constant replaying of the ways he could have been killed in the Laundromat. A realization that it was probably the last time he'd be able to move about the prison without a Niner putting a shiv in his back.

It felt like he'd been sleeping for no more than a few minutes, but the sound of a guard at his door alerted Clay otherwise.

"Visiting hours, Morrow. You got one." And just like that, he was yanked to his feet and pulled into the visiting lounge, set down at one of the cool metal benches and made to wait for the unknown visitor to make his appearance. Countless individuals funnelled into the room and took their seats by their loved ones, but no one that Clay bore any love for came. Just a tall man with a long beard and a ponytail. The same man that Tara had seen only a day or so ago. The same man that Otto had been seen by at much the same time.

"Hello Clay." Lee Toric announced. "I'm not going to make this a long visit for you. You've seen my reach. You've seen what guards and members of your MC are willing to do for me. I have pull; I have clearance more than a legal official. I can make you and I can break you as easy as I breathe right now." Toric tapped his hand on the table proudly. "More than that Mr. Morrow, I hear that, even despite all of that – you've turned down my generous offer."

Clay cocked a brow and pulled a confident, sly smile over his features. "Yeah, I did. And it ain't changing any time soon." He leaned back; the chain from his cuff's dangling at the floor now.

"Mm." Lee sounded unpleased. "Mr. Morrow, if you don't do this – if you don't rat on your club and help me bring back RICO – you're a dead man. And it won't be quick. Beating, after beating, after beating; you'll be broken before you die, Mr. Morrow."

Clay stared back at the man before him, his hands shaking a little from his arthritis, possibly even entangled with a sense of fear. All he knew is he couldn't stop them and the chains clacked and jangled on the ground to make it audible to the Toric.

"I told Otto, now I'm telling you. I'm not ratting on the thing I built. The Sons of Anarchy is my legacy; you wanna' take it down – I'm not doing your job for you." Standing up, Clay signalled the guard over to take him back to his cell.

However, Lee Toric just smiled, looking up at the proud standing biker before him. Slowly, he rose as well, matching Clay's height and giving him a half smile.

"Enjoy the next few days, Mr. Morrow. They will be excruciating."

But Clay didn't falter. He allowed his eyes to stay level on Lee as if he was absent of fear, when in actual fact, it lurked deep within his heart. He didn't know what it was that was keeping him from ratting out his club in truth. They had turned on him and given him every reason to; but there was something about the Sons of Anarchy that was more than that which could be broken by betrayal. It was like a child he'd nurtured and allowed to grow. And while he didn't agree with the direction the club was taking, he sure as hell wasn't going to allow it to be destroyed by lawman on a mission.

The day wore on like any other and Clay tended to the duties that he'd been assigned. He was on laundry since day one of being in Stockton, and considered himself a lucky man. It was easy work. Folding clothes, setting them into the dryers – nothing more, nothing less. In comparison to kitchen duty and some of the other janitorial posts; he'd pulled the bigger straw. Not to mention the guard presence in the laundry; funny how authority for a man such as himself could make the ex-SAMCRO pres feel all the more secure.

He could see some of the Niner's eying him off from across the room, but he did his best to pay them no attention. However, the sound of a guard whistling and signalling his men back out of the laundry had Clay's attention at the utmost.  
"What's going on?" he called out to the charged guard for the afternoon, but he was graced with none but silence. The previous guard presence had extinguished and Clay was left standing alone in a sea of enemies.  
Niner's etched towards him with confident faces and he could feel his knees beginning to weaken and his hands beginning to tremble. His arms tensed up, his chest puffed out in some false attempt to show he was dominant. But everything within the SAMCRO first niner told him to drop to his knees and beg for mercy of some kind.  
That, however, wasn't the Morrow way. That wasn't Clay's way. So he snapped his head up, snarling disgusted as the men advanced him; outmatching him five-to-one.

"Come on. Let's do this!" he thrust himself forward and hoped that his right armed swing would collect at least one of the gangsters. His hand drifted through the air for what seemed like forever, and the tension within him grew every second as he hoped, silently, that he'd deliver some damage before these bastards took him down.  
No luck.  
His arm swung short and he missed the target by inches leaving him open to a barrage of hits. He felt strikes to his stomach, to his face and legs all hit him like re-enforced steal poles. He squirmed and cussed as each strike landed, but nothing prepared him for what was to come. As he fell to the floor, body aching and mouth oozing blood, Clay was hoisted to his feet and tossed across the room. He landed heavily onto a washing machine, his head flat against its top surface. And then it came.  
A clean snap of his right wrist. One of the more powerful looking Niner's had grabbed his arm and yanked it down on the corner of the washer – Clay letting out an excruciating cry. And then nothing but the brief laughter of the Niner's as they disembarked the room, while the words of Lee Toric repeated themselves in Clay's tortured mind.


	4. Bylaw 4: Know How To Keep Your Head Down

**A.N: Thank you so much for the reviews, they truly mean a lot! Please keep them coming!  
I hope you enjoy the latest installment! The next addition may take slightly longer as I haven't started on it too much just yet, mostly been fleshing it out to see where I want that Bylaw/Chapter to go.  
Once again, thank you all so much!**

Diosa was bustling with customers again. Men of all ages were coming and going, taking ladies in hand to the private side rooms and tending to their private desires in the comfort of a beautiful establishment. Nero was perched up on one of the desks, his eyes looking over his customers with a pleasant smile, and a reassuring nod to his girls that they were doing their jobs to perfection. Regardless of the fact that all this shit with the rival gangbangers was at the forefront of his mind, Nero wasn't the kind of guy to let that get in the way of his livelihood. That was a private demon for him to face and for the Sons to sort out. And judging by the fact that he'd received a call from Jax only an hour or so ago in regards to meeting up to discuss 'their little problem' – things sounded like they were looking up.

Rising off his lounged position as Jax entered Diosa, Nero gave him a warm smile and signalled him to the private lounge that Nero had for himself. Entering and closing the door behind them, the Latino took to sitting down, offering Jax a seat opposite him.  
"So, wha's the go, hermano?" he questioned.  
Jax leaned forward in his seat, elbows sitting on his knees for upper body support and he allowed himself to release a small, relieved exhale.  
"The gangbangers won't be a problem anymore. They've got eyes for the Grim Bastards M.C now, brother. You keep business goin' as usual." He nodded with a sense of reassurance.  
Nero simply nodded his head and pulled a hand over his stumbled jawline.  
"Do I even wanna' ask how you sorted all this out?"  
"Probably not." Jax replied plainly.  
"Fair enough." He smiled downwardly. "Indebted, hermano. Can't thank you enough." He tapped his heart with two fingers.  
"Nah brother. This is paying you back for all the shit you've helped us out with in the past. Besides, Diosa's helpin' us as much as it is you. Any heat on it's only complicating shit." The SAMCRO president stated matter-of-factually.

Standing up, Nero paced towards his desk and leaned on it for a second, his eyes fixated on the picture of his son, Lucius, which sat on it.  
"You remember how we made that deal? You walk away, I walk away?" Nero reminded.  
Jax nodded his head, uncertainty on his face at where Nero was taking the conversation.  
"We ain't getting out anytime soon are we, holmes?" the Latino questioned, already knowing the answer.  
But Jax found the need to reply either way, knowing how much getting out meant to his partner. And so, he did his best to sound apologetic in his response – regardless of the fact that he was beginning to realize how distant he was becoming from his feelings since taking to the gavel. How soulless and corrupt of a person he was compared to the man, or rather, the boy he'd been as the SAMCRO V.P.  
"I can't, man. It's a bad time. Club needs me."  
"Club's always gonna' need you, Jax." He spoke softly. "But your wife – the one that's in lock-up; she needs you to get out, hermano. To walk away; make a life for you and yo' family."  
It was nothing Jax didn't already know and while a part of him wanted to defend the lie he'd fed Nero, he knew better not to. The Latino was smart; a voice of reason – and he could see through Jax better than most. And so he just nodded, as if to feign the idea that he was considering Nero's heartfelt words.  
"Yeah," Nero shrugged, unconvinced. "Anyway, my man – thanks again for sorting all this out."

Jax eased out of the chair, feeling slightly more ashamed than he'd thought he would at the idea of hardly considering Nero's caring words, but he hid it masterfully.  
"No problem bro. You need anything else, you just let me know."

And of Jax went, finding his own way out of Diosa and mounting up on his bike outside, Chibs and Tig only a few spaces away.  
"We good, bro?" Tig questioned.  
"Yeah." Jax nodded. "Nero's gonna' keep working his girls and we're gonna' have the same cash coming our way."  
"Tha's what we wanna' hear, Jackie-Boy!" Chibs called out, thankful for the way his brothers had handled the entire affair.  
"Jus' got a call from, Juicy. Teller-Morrow's got a guy wantin' ya' to take a look a' his ride." The Scot informed, fastening his helmet.  
Doing much the same, Jax revved his bike to life and gave Chibs and Tig an understanding nod.  
"I'm gonna' head back to the lot then, get the guys car sorted. Chibs – can you get onto Happy and see how he's going with getting protection for Tara inside?"  
Chibs nodded understandingly, knowing the importance of Tara's safety to his Pres, and so he wasted no time, roaring down the main stretch to head to Happy's mothers house. The smiley-faced biker had been there all of today, tending to his mother who was growing more and more ill with each given hour.  
"Where do you want me, Jax?" Tig asked, his shades resting on the bridge of his nose.  
"You come back with me to Teller-Morrow. Might need a hand with whatever car problems this guys having." Jax instructed, as he took off, heading or the mechanic lot that he'd inherited.

Soon enough, Jax and Tig had rolled into Teller-Morrow, their bikes alerting the other SAMCRO brothers of their arrival. Parking their rides in the bike line-up, the two senior members of the M.C dismounted and headed for the workshop, eyes scanning about for the car that had been brought in.  
Juice was knelt down beside a bike, working on some of the body work, his attention only taken away from it when Jax called on him.  
"Where's the ride, Juice?" he removed his shades and stroked his blonde goatee, following Juice's directive hand gesture.  
"Out there. He parked it just outside the gates. We were full-up when he got here." The younger patch spoke, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.  
"Alright. Get Rat-Boy and Filthy Phil to get it in the workshop."  
"No problem." And off Juice trotted, like a good little solider, searching out the newest patches to the SAMCRO brotherhood.  
In the meantime, Jax turned his attention to Tig, now that they were alone, his eyes focused on the once loyalist to Clay. No matter how much Tig re-assured him that he'd distance himself from the ex-President of the club, Jax couldn't shake the feeling that all the fire Clay was coming under recently had to be taking a toll on the Sergeant-At-Arms.  
So he spoke softly, letting no emotion seep into his words.  
"You doing okay, Tiggy?"  
The moustached biker forced a smile, removed his glasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket. "Course brother." There was no emotion to the once lively bikers voice and instead of sounding assuring, he sounded distant and detached from everything.  
"All this shit happening with Clay; that's not playing on you?" Jax tried to push for some sort of confirmation, hoping that a straight-to-the-point approach would favour his intentions a little more.  
But Tig responded the same way as he had before; emotionless – distant.  
"Promise brother. I'm all good."

However, just as Jax felt himself leaning forward to embrace his brother lovingly; a thank-you for his loyalty through all of this, a thunderous boom roared through the lot. Fire erupted from just beyond the walls and the front gates to Teller-Morrow blew in. Hangarounds cowered to the floor in fear and fellow mechanics dropped their tools, diving for cover. Juice was knocked off his feet, a part of the fiery fence landing on top of him. Gemma emerged from the office, her eyes wide with disbelief, and a hand racing over her heart as she saw Juice forced to the ground.  
Tig snapped into action, his legs carrying him towards Juice, and his hands struggling with the fence to release his brother from its hold. Juice struggled to help Tig as well, his hands forcing it up, and eventually, the two of them had the fence off of him.  
Jax's eyes were filled with coldness, and his hands clenched at his sides, standing where he was when the sound had erupted.  
And then, with nothing but the fire sizzling and the sounds of petrified patrons realizing what had happened – there was silence.  
Gemma etched out onto the lot, moving closer to the source of the flames and Jax followed closely behind.  
The sight of a vehicle before them brought Jax to a sudden realization; there were brothers in the vicinity of the explosion, and Juice's cries from afar confirmed that.  
"Phil and Rat were in there!" he stammered towards his president, but still, Jax concealed all emotion, looking deeply into the flames where he could see the feint outlines of the two burning corpses within.

Someone was attacking them at their home; where they were most vulnerable. And now, regardless of how little Jax wanted to be, it seemed like the Sons of Anarchy were being pulled into a fiery, bloody war.

* * *

Wayne Unser sat at the steel, bolted tables of Stockton, his hands clasped together atop of its cool surface and his eyes glancing about the room, idly, as he waited on Clay to emerge from the innards of the prison. He wasn't quite sure what the ex-President wanted, but judging by the call he'd received, it sounded urgent. Now, Wayne didn't consider himself even remotely indebted to Morrow – but rather – his loyalty to friends and respect for kindness and common courtesy were that which brought him into Stockton's walls.

His thoughts were taken away as the sound of footsteps drew closer to him, his eyes locking onto the bruised and bloodied Clay. The grey haired biker plonked himself down, his body looking weaker than it had ever been before, and Wayne could hardly hold back the look of concern he was casting Clay's way. Betrayed, used and blackmailed, even still, Unser felt a sense of sorrow for Clay. The way his family had turned their back on him and left him to the Niners for something he didn't truly do.  
And so, Wayne breathed in a deep breath and exhaled, his beady eyes darting over Clay's wounds; and particularly noting the broken wrist that his once close friend was sporting.  
"Jesus Christ, Clay. The hell happened to you?"  
Clay looked back at him with no emotion, his eyes cold and dark and there was a clearness that he was pondering on something. Pondering on whether he should offer the information he had called Unser down here to receive. After all, that information was going to help the people that turned on him.  
Something he did not truly want to do.  
However, it also helped is club stay alive – and that was something he had to ensure.

Weighing up those facts, Clay leaned forward, cringing a little as he applied some misplaced force onto his broken wrist.  
"Niners. No big deal, I'll live." He tried to sound confident, strong and unbroken, when in truth, he was everything but. "Got something I need you to tell the club." He stopped and made sure Unser was listening well and clear.  
Wayne stayed silent, sitting in place with curious eyes; his attention captured.  
"The brother of that nurse that got killed on Tara's watch – Lee Toric," Clay paused a second and noted that Unser was already familiar with the name, simply by the way he had reacted. "He's responsible for this. He's got Otto on his side, trying to get me to turn on the club to bring back RICO." He breathed out and rubbed a hand over his chin. "Wants the club to go down, Wayne." He stressed the importance of that.

Wayne looked confused. And for good reason. Why Clay was trying to help SAMCRO – it just didn't make any sense to a law enforcer; to someone who didn't understand how a part of you a club like SAMCRO could become. And so, with uncertainty plastered across his aged, worn features, Unser chortled.  
"SAMCRO gets you prison-bound and now you want to save them? Doesn't make sense to me Clay."  
Clay snapped back quickly. "I don't expect you to understand, Wayne. All I'm asking is for you to deliver a message. Tell Jax what Toric's planning."  
Wayne raised a brow, folding his arms under his armpits.  
"And I suppose you want protection out of this or something?"  
"Nah. I don't want shit. Deliver the message – that's all." Clay uttered simply, his eyes focusing on the table now, his mind circling about itself – agonizing thoughts of what to expect for the next few days whilst the Niners had free reign to unleash hell on him.  
Wayne wiped a hand over his face, finally nodding his head to give Clay some form of clarification that he was registering the mans words.  
"Alright." He shrugged. "I can't promise Jax will listen to me, but I'll tell him." Unser conceded, nodding.

* * *

Jax had ridden home after the attack at Teller-Morrow. His eyes were bloodshot with the rage that was churning within him, and the faces of Rat-Boy and Filthy Phil kept re-appearing in his mind. But it wasn't because of any love he bore for them, but more or less the fact that they were being added to a wall of people whom had died as a direct result of their affiliation with the Sons of Anarchy. The more people died, the more Jax realized that Nero's words from earlier that day were none but true.  
If he didn't get out – if he didn't sort his life out like he'd promised Tara he would more than three years ago, he was going to be at the same mercy as Phil and Rat were as they were consumed by the merciless flames that had taken them from this world, just as quickly as they had come into it.

The sound of knocking at the door snapped Jax away from his unorthodox thought pattern and he allowed himself to stand from the kitchen table and pace to the source of the knocking. Turning the door knob and pulling the door open, the SAMCRO President's eyes locked onto a face he hardly wanted to be dealing with right now.  
Sherriff Roosevelt stood proudly at the Teller home, his shades sitting on his nose for only a moment longer, until he proceeded to remove them, tucking them into his pocket.  
"May I?" he questioned, signalling inside.  
Jax cast a glance down at the floor, and then back up at the officer before him. "Sure." He conceded reluctantly. "Come in." he moved to the side and let Eli in, shutting the door behind him.  
The Sherriff made for the kitchen table, taking a seat in the already drawn out seat where Jax had been sitting earlier. He set has arm down on the table, angled outwards, facing Jax and spoke.  
"Fiery mess down at Teller-Morrow." He stated matter-of-factually.  
"Yeah." Jax admitted, nodding his head. "Must've had some real bad fuel in it, huh?" he moved towards the fridge and got himself a beer, popping the lid off and taking a hearty swig.  
"It must have, indeed." Eli smirked a little, completely unconvinced by Jax's explanation. "Regardless, that's not what I'm here for." He breathed, wiping a hand over his uniform shirt.  
"Remember that mutual problem of ours?" Eli suggested, raising a brow.  
"Clay?" Jax asked through another swig.  
Eli nodded in confirmation.  
"I'm not too sure how long charges are going to hold on Mr. Morrow."

For the first time since Eli walked in, Jax looked legitimately concerned, his brows arching in and his idle, casual movements halting.

"What'd'you mean?"

Eli reached into his back pocket and tossed an evidence bag onto the table, his eyes signalling Jax to it.  
As the biker moved in, picking up the see-through bag, the Sherriff continued his explanation whilst Jax examined it.

"Trager's hair was found at the scene. Nothing of Clay's except his gun and fingerprints, which, if handled well enough by a glove wielding murderer, would remain in tact on the weapon." Eli sighed, rubbing his chin.  
"So what are you saying?" Jax shook his head, uncertain.  
Eli leaned back in the seat, allowing himself to extend out and get a little more comfortable.  
"Niners are paying big dollars to some of the corrupt assholes in my department to search deeper now that Trager's DNA has been found at the scene. They ain't so convinced that Clay's behind this anymore. Some reason, they're leaning more towards the SAMCRO brotherhood as a whole." Eli looked at Jax, his eyes full of seriousness. "Just because Pope's gone, Jax, doesn't mean these guys aren't dangerous."

Jax stepped uneasily towards the table, feeling a little lightheaded. Pulling a seat out and dropping into it, he allowed his arms to hand between his legs, his body arched over. The thought of Clay getting out of prison wasn't one that he wanted to deal with. That son of a bitch needed to stay behind bars and for a really long time. In fact, until death did the cell and Morrow part.

"Look, bro, you need to get rid of this shit. This evidence is going to get your wife's murderer a free-pass back onto the streets of Charming." Jax almost sounded like he was pleading here.  
"Let me stop you right there." Eli instructed, putting his index finger up. "I'm not about to tamper with this evidence, Jax. Right now, it's not enough to give Clay free passage from Stockton but if more evidence piles up and Trager's tied to the scene even more than he is now – the laws going to be the last of your problems. This information is leaking, Jax – that's why I'm here – that's why I'm telling you this. The Niners will retaliate, and hard. Keep Trager out of the spotlight." Eli advised. He wasn't going to be responsible for another dead body; not like he felt he was for Frankie Diamonds.


End file.
